


I Would Have

by Blissymbolics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Confessions, Craving, Dry Humping, Hopeful angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Longing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Use, Pining, Yearning, aching, canon-typical child abuse, childhood sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-12-22 21:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: “I would’ve let you. You didn't even need to ask. I would’ve let you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samansucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so purple I think I'm running low on oxygen.

Richie flicks on the light switch, the tri-bulb fixture in the ceiling sputtering to life and illuminating the room that he had all but forgotten. He looks down at the baby blue carpet that his parents installed in the summer of 1975 after the prenatal nurse showed them a picture of his dick on the ultrasound. The soft blue walls were painted to match, complete with navy stripes extending from the moulding to the slightly bowed ceiling.

The shelves are nearly bare. All his action figures and knickknacks were packed away almost two decades ago. His collection of rocks and weird sticks, scrap metal that he twisted into clunky robots. The weird boxes he picked up at yard sales and the memorabilia he collected at concerts. All the odds and ends that one acquires in childhood and clings to possessively like a magpie. Each scrap of paper and oddly-shaped totem was an artifact. And in each object he feels like he bestowed a fragment of his childhood. And as his collection grew, his reserves kept depleting, and now he has nothing left.

In theory, all the items that made up his adolescence should still be in the house, but they’re probably stashed away in the attic or basement. His mom said she never threw anything out, just packed it all in boxes so the room would be easier to clean. And to her credit, she left most of his books intact, even though they’re mainly school texts that he has no intention of ever rereading.

He always meant to come back to Derry sooner rather than later to sort through everything, separate the junk from the keepsakes. He always meant to. At first he made the excuse that driving all his shit back out to California would be too much of a hassle. But he’s been wealthy enough for the last decade that he could’ve easily asked his parents to ship him everything wholesale.

But he never did.

His clothes are the only items that he knows are gone for good. Right before finishing college he gave his mom permission to donate whatever he left behind in his closet, but now he regrets it. She must have preserved a few things though. Some of his baby clothes probably. Maybe a school t-shirt or two. Maybe even the converse sneakers that he wore down to shreds but kept anyway because he felt so much pride in using something to its fullest purpose, which he supposes is a very counter-capitalist concept of pride.

God, out of nowhere, he wants more than anything to see those shoes. Those shoes that he must’ve walked at least a thousand miles in. How they expanded and eventually tore as his feet grew inside the canvas. God, he’ll be fucking sick if his mom threw them away. Of course he couldn’t blame her if she did. When she asked about his wardrobe over the phone, he was in the process of feverishly typing up the last of his college term papers, which he started only seven hours before it was due. He couldn’t afford to spare a single thought for the CDs, video games, and posters dwelling stagnant in a room he hadn’t set foot in for almost four years. But thank god his parents retained their sense of nostalgia while his preternaturally decayed.

“Woah, memory rush.”

Richie turns back to see Eddie standing in the doorframe, his voice slightly crooked from the stitches he finally got in his cheek. Talking probably makes the thread stretch uncomfortably, but at least the painkillers seem to be doing their job, and the tetanus booster probably helped too.

“Yeah, it’s weird. If you’d asked me three days ago what my childhood bedroom looked like I wouldn’t of been able to say much besides bed, desk, chair. But now, I remember my mom yelling at me for leaving damp towels on the floor. Right there.” He points to the patch of carpet to the right of his bed, wondering if it will smell like mildew if he presses his nose to it. “I remember… pulling my first all nighter studying for our tenth grade bio final.” He points to his old desk, which now seems much lower to the ground. In fact, everything in this room feels smaller than it did back then, even though he hit his full height by sixteen.

His grin grows wider as he takes in the perimeter, reconstructing the posters and frames that used to decorate the walls. He steps closer, and the holes where the tacks and nails used to be come into focus. He suddenly remembers in perfect detail the order of objects that used to line his shelves. Details he assumed everyone forgot with age. But how could he forget the room where he spent eighteen years of his life? Sleeping in the exact same spot everyday, waking up to the same ceiling. The same duvet that was faded and threadbare by the time he packed up his duffle bags and drove west in a six-day sprint that brought him to the streets of San Francisco.

The only thing he can’t remember about this room is the smell. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t this. This smell of drywall and emptiness, old people and air freshener. As hard as he tries, he can’t remember what it used to smell like. Or maybe it was simply the smell that he naturally carries on him to this day, and if he stays here long enough, it will eventually return.

“You’ve been back here, right?” Eddie asks. “For Christmas and stuff?”

“No, not really. Not at all, actually.” He meanders over to the bare twin mattress and sits on the edge, the springs sinking under his weight.

“What do you mean not at all?”

“Exactly what I said. It’s not like I planned it. But I went to school out in California so it was too expensive to fly back east more than once a year, so I only came back for Christmas, but always flew straight to my grandparents’ place down in Delaware. And when they died I went straight to my aunt’s place in Buffalo.”

God, they used to fit in this bed so seamlessly. Richie remembers lying on his back with his head lolled over the side while Eddie sat against the headboard and lectured him about the dangers of letting all the blood flow to his brain. He remembers when they were really little and could still sleep side by side, but soon they grew too big to fit on the mattress without touching, so Richie banished himself to the cot on the floor, aching all the while because Eddie was in his bed. And in the morning some of his hair would be scattered across the pillow, and maybe some vestiges of his scent would soak into the sheets.

Richie has no idea why his teenage self was so preoccupied with scent. Sure, a person’s scent always had the potential to turn him on or off, but he can’t recall experiencing the rush he felt as a teenager whenever Eddie stood within his radius. The desire to bury his nose right below his ear and just smell.

He flinches when Eddie pushes away from his spot against the doorframe and begins walking over. Then he sits at Richie’s side, their bodies toeing the line of too close for comfort.

Richie feels a shudder course through him, as if Eddie just walked over his past self’s grave.

He allows the shivers to quickly travel from his arms to the crown of his head, like a dog shaking out the water from its fur. Then he stares at the wall, afraid to even glance at Eddie out of the corner of his eye.

“I mean, sure,” he continues. “I’m rich enough now that I could’ve flown back whenever I wanted. But my parents were always much happier coming out to visit me in California, and I never had any reason to come back here. So this place kinda just disappeared.”

Richie’s eyes fall on the navy blue curtains drawn over his two windows, blocking out the abject darkness on the other side. Richie suddenly remembers a miniature Eddie crawling through the window on his right, his prepubescent body easily maneuvering through the opening, and Richie couldn’t help but wonder how sick Eddie could really be if he was strong enough to scale the porch beneath Richie’s window.

He wants to ask Eddie if he remembers climbing up here. If he recalls the nights he spent nestled in Richie’s bed while he himself lay curled on the floor. How the first words out of Eddie’s mouth were usually something along the lines of “I’m fucking starving” because his mom kept him on a diet of green beans and apple wedges as she gorged herself on fudge brownies while Eddie was at school.

Richie remembers sneaking down to the kitchen to bring Eddie dinner leftovers, juice boxes, prepackaged cookies, and an entire box of cereal. Then he'd watch Eddie eat and eat and eat until it looked like he was going to be sick. When his parents asked him about the missing food he always lied and said that he was the culprit. Fortunately it happened infrequently enough that his parents never got on his case about it, growing boy and all that. So as long as he brushed his teeth and wasn’t gaining weight they left him to his latchkey excursions.

Richie remembers the raw jealousy is Eddie’s face when he told him this. For Eddie, eating what he wanted when he wanted must’ve seemed like blissful anarchy. His mom strictly regulated everything he put in his body. Just like she forced pills and vitamins down his throat, she also stuffed him full of lettuce, flaxseed, and raw oats. Probably not even in high enough calorie counts to sustain his growing body, and Richie can’t help but wonder if that played a part in why Eddie started puberty so late.

Richie’s just about to remind him of his midnight escape missions, but Eddie speaks first.

“I never really came back either. I mean, there was no point since we moved out to Bangor after junior year. But after everything that went down with my mom, I came up with every excuse to stay out of this fucking state.”

That’s right, by 1993 Eddie’s mom was practically bedridden due to a mixture of diabetes, gout, and a host of other ailments, so they had no choice but to move in with her sister. Eddie shrugged it off at the time. It was only for a year anyway. And there were buses going between Bangor and Derry at least once per day, so he could stay at Richie’s place for the weekend whenever he felt like it. Richie couldn’t help but feel like the assurances were more for his own benefit rather than Eddie’s, as they seemed just a bit too rosy. Like a nurse telling a patient in hospice care that everything was going to be fine.

He wanted to kiss him right then and there. As Eddie assured him that everything would be alright. Richie wanted to press his hands on either side of his face, close his eyes, and take the risk of flushing their lifelong friendship down the crapper all on one stupid gamble. And if there was no reciprocation, then at least Eddie would be gone. They wouldn’t have to awkwardly avoid each other in school. They wouldn’t have to explain to the rest of the Losers why they were no longer on speaking terms. Eddie could’ve just disappeared from his life; a bittersweet memory of first love and heartbreak all neatly wrapped up before he crossed the threshold into adulthood.

But he didn’t kiss him. He didn’t even rustle his hair or slap his shoulder or any other token gesture of affection because he knew all too well that it wouldn’t be enough. The last time he hugged Eddie it was on the sidewalk in front of his aunt’s car. Gripping him tight while trying to discreetly smell his hair, taking a million mental photographs that he could replay like a flip book. Constructing a text, a narrative, a story to house this moment so he could read it again and again.

He wanted to whisper what he felt into his ear. He wanted to. He almost did. But as Eddie assured him, he’d be back soon. This wasn’t goodbye. Eddie would be back before Richie could notice that the days were growing shorter.

They wouldn’t see each other again for twenty-three years.

Eddie continues talking, his voice managing to work around the pull of the stitches.

“She got real pissed when I decided to go to school down in D.C. We were broke but I didn’t get a penny of financial aid because she refused to fill out the forms. And once I was there she called me every single day, sometimes more than once. It pissed my roommates off before I got a cell. She kept trying to get me to come home, made up all these fake emergencies that my aunt said weren’t true. Then she fucking started calling the campus medical services and told them there was all sorts of shit wrong with me. They didn’t listen to her, thankfully. And they blocked her number. And hooked me up with a therapist. But still, it freaked me out. She was bedridden seven hundred miles away and I was still terrified she’d show up at my door any day.”

Eddie reaches up to touch the gauze on his cheek, as if to confirm it was still in place after all the exercise his mouth just got.

“She stopped trying to call after sophomore year. I kept in touch with my aunt, but barely. Then a couple years back she told me that my mom was in the terminal stages of liver cancer. And you know what my first thought was?”

Richie doesn’t even need a second to think about it.

“I’m guessing it was something along the lines of 'Oh fuck, now I have two parents who died from cancer relatively young. I might as well just walk into the fields and start digging my grave tonight.'”

Eddie glares at him, peeved, but amused.

“I bet you’re real proud of yourself,” he says with the quirk of a smile, and Richie returns it.

“Seriously though, are you coping with all that okay?” Richie asks gently. Eddie might be passably high-functioning, but Richie knows that the shadow of his family medical history must haunt him like the actual ghost of an ancestor.

“No, not remotely,” he laughs dejectedly. “I mean, she definitely brought it on herself. And so did my dad. He smoked three packs a day since he was twelve. But still, it fucking scares me. Her cancer diagnosis fucked me up more than her actual death. How fucked up is that?”

Richie lets out an exaggerated exhale, wiggling his toes into the carpet and thinking about how the most traumatic thing _his _parents ever did to him was forget him at summer camp for a day.

He wants to comfort Eddie, but knowing himself, it’ll probably come out as insincere and half-assed with a bad joke tacked on the end. He wants to tell him that he’s not fucked up at all. That he’s actually remarkably well-adjusted. That he deserved none of it and he’s so fucking proud of him for surviving it all and coming back to this fucking town and burning that damn inhaler and fuck, he’s the bravest of them all and must know that he’s so much stronger than the bulletproof glass box his mother tried to lock him inside.

But instead, what comes out is, “Hey, you want a drink?”

Eddie’s expression shifts several times as he parses out the emotional one-eighty Richie just threw at him. But thankfully, his peeved expression turns into a soft smile.

“So fucking badly. But I think my cheek would literally melt off.”

“Right, sorry.” Richie mentally kicks himself. “I mean, it is a natural antiseptic, but I think those seven doses of antibiotics should do the trick. Let me grab you some water though. Bottled water. I don’t trust the sewer system.”

Richie bolts up so quickly that the tension in the boxspring shifts like a wave. Then he’s walking to the door, faster than necessary, weirdly driven to get out of this damn room. To get away from Eddie and all the pity and regret and love boiling up inside him. So he makes his way down the stairs, instinctively knowing how many steps there are without needing to pay attention. Then he turns the corner into the kitchen, heading to the small wooden table where he and Eddie left the groceries they picked up earlier.

He called his parents earlier in the day to let them know he was in town and wanted to drop by, only to find out that they were down in Florida and wouldn’t be back for another three days. So like the prodigal son that he is – the one who never received so much as a slap or a hiss from his waspy, wonderful parents – he promised to stay for another week, and even said he’d pick them up from the airport on Sunday.

He invited Eddie almost as a courtesy joke, but was actually relieved when he said yes, as Richie wasn’t too keen on boarding himself up in his childhood home for three days where his paranoia could run rampant. Eddie said he wanted to put off returning to New York for as long as possible, trouble in paradise and all that noise; but staying alone at the Derry Inn would be like booking a multi-day haunted house tour. Besides, Richie’s house was familiar. It was comforting. It’s where he ran when the hunger cramps kept him from sleeping and the ammonia fumes of his bedroom-cum-hospital chamber sunk into his taste buds. This house, Richie’s bedroom, and the open window were a glimpse of the childhood he could have had. The one Richie never deserved.

Richie grabs one of the water bottles out of the twelve-pack they bought at the store, sitting alongside some gluten-free bread, almond milk, and organic apples. He thinks about grabbing a bottle for himself, but instead he goes into the living room towards the one place his parents always kept under lock and key:

The liquor cabinet.

Except there are no longer any children living in this house, so all it takes is a light tug to pull the cabinet open, and Richie can’t help but feel disappointed by what he finds inside.

It was always much grander in his imagination. Every square inch of space decorated with colorful bottles that would clink out a melody if you ran a piece of metal across each row. And maybe it was that way back then, but now there’s just a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few unopened bottles of red wine, and a brand of whiskey that he’s definitely tasted before, but never bought. Regardless, he’s not picky. So he unscrews the cap and takes a swig, feeling it burn the back of his throat as he cringes and clenches his eyes. He shudders and coughs as he screws the cap back on and returns the bottle to its spot, which is easy to identify since there’s a ring of dust around the base.

He supposes he has to go back upstairs now. Where Eddie is probably still sitting on the bed. His bed. Where Eddie often slept while Richie lay on the floor like a dog. Cold and dejected, fantasizing about crawling back onto the mattress and holding Eddie against his chest. Feeling him breathe. Feeling him sweat. Feeling him exist right against Richie’s skin. Beautiful and strong and alive.

He used to make any excuse to touch Eddie when they were kids. Excessive high fives, picking him up without permission, and on a few low occasions deliberately provoking fights just so Eddie would wrestle him to the ground. Grass stains and dirt under his nails. Touching Eddie all over and pinning his hands by his head in a position so cliche it’s become a filmmaking sin.

Puberty really didn’t fuck around with him. It was everything people warned him about and worse. At fifteen he had to bite the bullet and ask for prescription strength deodorant, all because sitting next to Eddie caused him to perspire as if he were ten thousand feet closer to the sun. Eddie always ribbed him about it like the little shit that he was, and still is. Because that’s what they did. They gave each other shit. They masked compliments behind layers of putdowns. They negged each other to the point of tears and then apologized like puppies that had bitten each other too hard while play fighting.

Sometimes their legs or feet would briefly brush against each other beneath a table, and Richie’s face would contort into something that probably looked like he was caught between a spiritual vision and a spontaneous orgasm.

He remembers biking home with the seat of his bicycle pressing against his crotch. Trying to peddle without rubbing himself too hard against the faux leather. He’d rush home before his parents or sister could get there, then quarantine himself in his room where he touched himself beneath heavy blankets, even in the height of summer. Nearly fully clothed with the curtains drawn tight, his hand slick with the vaseline he shoplifted from the pharmacy. Which was fucking stupid since if you’re a teenage boy getting caught stealing vaseline is just as incriminating as getting caught with lube.

And the next day he was always sure that Eddie could smell it on him. How could he not? He was drowning in it. If Eddie’s room smelled like bleach and hunger, then Richie’s smelled like pheromones and melting plastic.

All of these memories waft through him as he stands at the base of the stairs, swaying in the breeze for maybe a couple minutes before shaking himself out of his head and walking back up to the landing. Except he’s not a forty-year-old man anymore. He’s a teenage boy, scared and infatuated, returning to the room where the object of his sexual awakening is waiting for him. On his bed. Spreading his scent.

Fuck, here he was thinking about scent again. Eddie’s scent, his own. The smell of this house and Eddie’s room and the dirt of the barrows and the shit of the sewers. Olfactory recollections pummeling him with every step.

Just bring him the damn water, Tozier. Just like how you used to bring him dishes of casserole and bags of popcorn. Just take care of him. Make him remember. Make him understand.

But don’t say a word about any of this.

Richie left the door slightly ajar, so he pushes on it slowly, relishing in the familiar creak.

Eddie is sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, facing the door with a large thin book in his lap. When Richie steps closer he can clearly see that it’s a yearbook, which he must have pulled off the shelf.

“What you lookin’ at?” he asks, but stops in his tracks when he sees confusion on Eddie’s face.

“Are you going to murder me?” Eddie asks, his tone neither sarcastic nor serious, which sends Richie off his game.

“Wait, is this the lead in to a joke or do you actually think I’m the clown?”

In lieu of a response, Eddie just turns the yearbook in Richie’s direction and presses his finger down against a spot on the page.

“Why’d you cut me out of all your yearbooks?”

Richie feels a sudden lurch of deja vu. Like he’s back on stage and just lost his place. His next line pulled out from under his feet. How many minutes are left in his set? Five, ten, fifty? It’s so much time. So many words that normally flow seamlessly into the microphone and bounce back with the acoustics of whatever tin can venue he’s performing in. Everyone is watching, aware of what’s happening, averting their eyes, some subtly plugging their ears, hoping, praying that he’ll find his way out of this because the alternative is just too painful to think about.

And he always did. He always found his way out. Even that day no more than a week ago after he received Mike’s phone call. He stumbled and stuttered for maybe a minute, but then the adrenaline kicked in. His body defaulted to autopilot, muscle memory taking over. That’s what had to happen. Because there was no alternative.

He feels the same way now, as the seconds tick by and his mouth forms around nothing and Eddie just sits there, patiently waiting for an explanation.

There’s no script he can fall back on. There’s no audience he can riff off. No old joke he can dig up and regurgitate.

_Tell a joke, funny man. Tell a joke._

“Why’re you looking through my yearbooks anyway?” he asks with mock offense, noticing that the other three are stacked behind Eddie on the bed. It’s an unfair question. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be looking. No reason at all.

_Tell a joke, _his subconscious screams. _Tell a fucking joke!_

“Is nostalgia illegal now? Besides, they’re technically my yearbooks too. Seriously dude, I’m not upset or anything. Did I just piss you off on a bad day or something?”

Richie realizes that Eddie just gave him an out. He should start nodding his head in agreement. Yes, he was upset over that big fight they got into on their last day of junior year. When Eddie outright called him crazy for even entertaining the idea of trying to make it in comedy. He called it unrealistic, irresponsible, and all the other adjectives that Richie had already heard from his parents, teachers, and the checkout clerks at the grocery store.

_“Yes, Eddie, I was upset that you tried to talk me out of going to L.A. so I cut out all your yearbook photos. I’m sorry. Bygones unto bygones.”_

He could say that, and this would be over.

But instead, he walks over to his suitcase, crouches down, and unzips the main compartment, his hands trembling as he fights against a kink in the zipper.

“You okay, man?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, I’m good. Listen, I want to show you something. But promise you won’t freak out.”

“I think my adrenaline stores are so depleted at this point that I couldn’t freak out even if I wanted to.”

Richie lets out a small laugh, desperate and quiet as he searches through his unfolded laundry. At the bottom he finds what he was looking for: a small wooden box that he picked up for a dime at a yard sale sometime before his thirteenth birthday. A box he hasn’t opened since he first left Derry. A box that he half expects to be full of blood or come, something foul and rancid corrupting what he locked away inside.

But no, when he opens it, he only finds three small black and white photos of a little boy with brown hair and eyes, wearing clothes too nice for his class.

He remembers clipping them out after Eddie moved away. Sitting on his bed holding back snot and tears as he lovingly adhered them to pieces of card stock and safely tucked them in the box that used to house his small collection of perfectly round river rocks. There the photos stayed for twenty-three years. He drove them across the states and kept them safe amidst the clutter of his dorm room, then the shabby closet of his first apartment. Even as he steadily forgot what was inside the box, he always kept it within arms reach. And sometimes, he’d be sitting around waiting for an audition, or preparing a set, or sitting in the airport, and he’d be struck with a bolt of anxiety that his house had caught fire in his absence and the box was now no more. He never worried about anything else he owned. His TV, computer, and handful of rare records were worthless compared to whatever was in that box.

And when he returned home from his stint in New York, the box was one of the first things he stuffed into his suitcase.

“I think I have a theory about why Mike’s ritual didn’t work,” Richie says as he turns back to Eddie with the photos hidden in his palm. “And surprise surprise, it was all my fault.”

“This is my surprised face,” Eddie deadpans, his expression forcefully flat, causing Richie to let out a breathy laugh.

Richie walks three steps to the bed and sits in his spot from earlier, feeling the mattress adjust to his weight. His heart is pounding, he can feel wetness culminating around his armpits and chest. For a moment he feels like he’s back in his old body. The posters are still on the wall, the bed beneath him is covered in week-old sheets, and for a split second he swears he can smell it again: his room as it used to be. But then it vanishes like a vindictive dream.

As an adult, he always dismissed these forgotten sentiments as the purple fantasies of grown ups who felt cheated out of the youth they thought they deserved. But now he’s here. He can feel it. Within the past three days he’s relived an entire adolescence worth of love and it feels like someone is forcing him to watch a lightning fast reel with his eyes clamped open while they slowly pry apart his ribs.

“You know that stupid arcade token wasn’t my actual token, right? These were.”

With that, he opens the palm of his hand where he’s gently cradling the pictures as if they were fragile baby birds. Three sets of eyes stare back at them, accompanied by awkward smiles and overly slick hair. “There you are,” Richie laughs. “All three of you. I was always pissed that you didn’t hang around for another year so I could get the full set.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, and again, Richie crumples the way he does when a joke bombs on stage. But after a moment, Eddie reaches up and gently lifts the pictures from his palm, tickling his damp skin, and Richie’s eyes close involuntarily as the brush of his fingertips invokes a vivid fantasy of running his tongue along Eddie’s bottom lip.

Eddie holds them in his hands like a suit of cards, inspecting them as if to verify that he really is the boy in the photos. Then he looks down at the blank spot in the yearbook where EDWARD KASPBRAK is printed as if to confirm the match.

“You didn’t do this with anyone else’s pictures.” It’s a statement, not a question. Eddie must’ve already flipped through the relatively short books in Richie's absence.

“No. Just yours,” Richie all but whispers.

This is it. This is what he should have done twenty-three years ago when Eddie was clasped in his arms and murmuring irreverent goodbyes. He should’ve told him.

He should’ve told him.

His empty palm coils around nothing as he squeezes his eyes tight. It’s over. Whatever happens next is out of his control. There’s no script. No curtain call. No punchline.

Then Richie feels Eddie’s hand against his cheek, and his eyes snap open as Eddie gently coaxes him to turn his head.

_He’s touching me. He’s touching me, _is Richie’s last thought before Eddie leans forward and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a flurry after being possessed by the ghost of 17th century lesbian convent girl. Please let me know if you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter leading up to the main event.

As a kid, Richie was led to believe that kissing was the end all be all of romance. There were strategies, techniques, probably workshops you could attend. Your performance was the deciding factor. One wrong slip of tongue and you’d find yourself alone on the curb; your reputation tarnished beyond recovery as rumors spread of your dry lips and clumsy tongue, bad taste and dirty teeth.

But in reality, growing up has taught him that kissing is just another thing that people tend to do with their bodies. Some people like it and some people don’t, but no one’s going to rate you on a one-to-ten scale. It’s harmless, and sweet. Sometimes it leads to something more and sometimes it doesn’t.

And this kiss feels almost prepubescent in its modesty. As they gently drift apart then lean back in again, pressing their closed mouths together like two children mimicking the adults around them.

Neither of them have opened their mouths yet, so Richie steels himself and makes the first move. He parts his lips just enough to run the tip of his tongue along Eddie’s lower lip – the velvet glide sweet enough to provoke an undignified hum. Eddie eagerly reciprocates, opening his mouth and tilting his head to the side to slot their heads together.

And after maybe a minute or so of enjoying the soft sounds resounding in his head like the plucked strings of a chord, Richie decides to break one of the cardinal rules of kissing:

He opens his eyes.

And he sees Eddie, so close that his glasses dutifully magnify every feature. Richie slides his gaze down the arches of Eddie’s closed eyes, his eyelashes close enough to count. Richie hums and lowers his eyes again, focusing on the reciprocal movements of their mouths, moistening Eddie’s lips when they feel too dry, breathing through his nose and trying to remember why something as innocent as this used to paralyze him.

Eddie’s hand is still resting on Richie’s cheek, but now he’s grasping him harder, guiding him in the right direction while running his thumb along his temple. And even though Eddie tastes like the breakfast food they had for dinner, Richie gratefully explores the ridges of his mouth with a desperation that doesn’t disappoint.

“I’m guessing that isn’t Listerine on your breath,” Eddie whispers after breaking away for air.

Richie pauses in confusion, but then he remembers.

“Shit, sorry. I had a drink while I was downstairs.”

“It’s all good.” Eddie smiles, running a thumb up the crest of his cheekbone. “Like you said, it’s an antiseptic.”

Richie lets out a nervous laugh, but before he can let reality catch up with him, Eddie presses in for another kiss.

The panic will come later. He knows it will. The anxiety and second guessing, that will hit him like a prison lock sometime later. But for now, Eddie is kissing him, gentle yet enthusiastic, and with every glide and caress Richie can feel relief dripping off him as if he just broke a fever.

And he begins to imagine if this is what it would’ve been like. Back then, if he’d had the guts to gamble their friendship. The hundreds of times they sat in this very bed, electricity coursing between the gaps; if Richie had done this, would Eddie have let him?

Did he waste over two decades of his life over a kiss that never happened?

“Ow!” Eddie hisses, pulling away sharply and pressing a hand to his bandaged cheek.

“Fuck, you okay?” Richie asks in a sudden panic, his hand rising instinctively with no clear intent.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says, despite very obviously being in pain. “Just opened my mouth too wide.”

He winces a bit more before his expression levels out, the spike of pain passing.

Richie lowers his outstretched arm, letting it hang uselessly in his lap. He was fully prepared to reach for Eddie’s shoulder, but some benign decorum stopped him in midair.

He used to touch Eddie all the time when they were kids, but it was always tinged with sarcastic detachment. It’s unreal to think that they can actually touch each other now without any pretense or motive, even if he’s still too chickenshit to so much as touch his shoulder without explicit permission.

_Hey, Eds, hold still for a sec, you got something in your hair._

_Is it a bug?_

_Well… spiders aren’t technically bugs, right?_

_Fuck, get it out!_

_Relax, I’m kidding. It’s just some leaves or some shit._

Richie remembers picking at Eddie’s hair for far longer than necessary, taking less than five seconds to extract the small clump of foliage, then continuing to brush and tease his hair until it felt like he was at the end of his quota. Twenty-six years later, he still remembers the feel of soft curls beneath his fingertips, and the craving he felt to lean forward and breath into them.

There are certain moments where it feels like reality has broken off from the main freeway and carried you down an unpaved side road off the veins of your charted course. This night, this moment, may be the greatest paradigm shift of his life. More than when he signed his first agent, got stopped for his first autograph, or made his first million. It may only be second to when he discovered – twice – that monsters are real.

He can touch Eddie. He can kiss him.

How strange is that?

“I should probably go switch out the gauze,” Eddie says after a stretch of silence. “Spray on some saline.”

“Yeah, definitely go do that,” Richie replies with a pronounced stutter. “I’m gonna, um…” What the hell is he going to do? Stay here? Go buy cigarettes? Walk into the woods and dig a hole? He blanks, then looks down at the mattress beneath them.

“I’m gonna try to find some sheets,” he finishes, proud of himself for coming up with a necessary task. “Then I’ll probably take a shower. Get ready for bed.”

He honest to god didn’t intend for what he just said to come out as suggestive, but he realizes too late that Eddie probably interpreted his words as a de facto invitation. And well, if that’s his takeaway then Richie’s not going to correct him, even though he’s sweating so hard it feels like he just downed a six-pack.

“Yeah, me too,” Eddie replies, absurdly calm in contrast.

“You can use the bathroom in my parents’ room. If you like,” Richie fumbles, then kicks himself when he catches a hint of disappointment in Eddie’s expression. Fuck, he needs to stop being so goddamn formal. He should just invite Eddie to shower with him. It just feels too forward since they technically haven’t made it past first base yet.

God, he hasn’t measured sex in bases since… ever.

This place is infantilizing him from the inside out.

“Yeah, I’ll go do that,” Eddie says, slowly standing from the bed, but giving Richie’s arm a reassuring squeeze along the way. Fuck, how is he so put together? Why is Richie the only one cycling through a five alarm meltdown?

Eddie makes his way to the door, then pauses, and turns back.

“But hey, afterwards, can I come back in here?”

Richie stares at him, mouth agape, shattered and ashamed that he let Eddie think for one second that he might not be welcome here.

“Of course,” he answers in the sincerest voice he can summon.

Eddie’s posture seems to relax. Then he gives one last smile before disappearing down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

After Eddie leaves the room, Richie lets the smile fall from his face as his brain and body grind in disconcerting spirals. Once the height of the vertigo passes, he stumbles over to the window – Eddie’s window – and lifts it open. The crisp air rushes past him and instantly causes his sweat to dry cold.

God, he wishes he was a kid again. He wishes he was fifteen and hungry and brave. Before the depression and disillusionment kicked in. Back when he was still growing on a day by day basis, his personality expanding like an overactive virus. Back when his nihilism was liberating rather than oppressive. Back when he still had unimaginable tracts of time laid out before him. Time he could have wasted basking in the negligence of childhood with Eddie in his arms.

Fuck, it would have been beautiful. _They _were beautiful back then. And Eddie still is, in a new way. But Richie, he ran himself ragged and drank his way through too many nights and now he feels like he’s stuffed full of rot that’s dripping out at the seams. And at forty he knows he should’ve grown past his juvenile insecurity a long time ago, but fuck, Eddie is everything he could possibly want and he himself doesn’t have enough to give.

Enough to give. As if Eddie’s expecting a fucking dowry.

_Don’t fuck it up, funny man. Don’t fuck it up._

He shuts the window and draws back the curtains. He takes a deep breath, then walks down the hall to the linen closet to search through the stacks of sheets, looking for a tag marked ‘twin.’ Fuck, it’s going to be a tight fit; but he can sleep on the floor if need be, even though the thought makes his chest ache, as well as his back.

After finding a set he returns to his room and quickly pulls the fitted sheet over the corners, hoping to finish before Eddie gets back. After haphazardly unfurling the top sheet he turns to the closet to check if there are any pillows.

Sure enough, on the top shelf he finds two pillows zipped in plastic sealing, along with his old duvet. The fabric really is past its prime, but it smells clean when he presses his nose to it. His mom must have washed it after he moved out, and based on the condition of the fibers, it doesn’t look like it has many washes left in it.

After making the bed he grabs a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants then heads back to the linen closet to get a towel. His body mechanically carries him through the motions of locking the bathroom door and turning on the shower, knowing instinctively that it will take at least a minute to warm up.

He pulls off his sweaty shirt and pushes down his jeans and underwear. The water still isn’t warm. He waits. And waits. Feeling more exposed with every passing second, the pause in his routine finally giving his brain time to catch up with reality.

He’s about to get into bed with Eddie, and not in the context of a sleepover. They might even have sex, though probably not. But at the very least they’ll be close enough to touch. Maybe Eddie will let him sleep with an arm wrapped around his chest, Richie's nose pressed into his hair. Maybe Eddie will caress his hands and kiss him in the darkness. It’s almost too much to think about. It’s too perfect. Too intimate. It’s the type of contact Richie fantasized about during his long nights of insomnia, the nights when he would gladly sacrifice his left thumb for a warm body to hold.

He’s so lost in thought that it takes him a minute to realize that the water is now hot and is in fact burning his hand. He yanks it away, shaking out the red skin, then turns the temperature down a notch and steps over the lip of the tub.

He washes his hair and scrubs his body raw, trying to clean off forty years worth of grime. He mulls over the idea of jerking off, that way if Eddie _does _want sex he’ll at least be able to last longer. But on the other hand, if he gets off now it’ll take him a while to get it up again, and Eddie might take that as an insult. Besides, the anxiety should serve as an effective enough deterrent. Although it would be nostalgic: jerking off right here where he’s probably done it hundreds of times before.

He switches off the water and briskly dries himself off. He pulls on his sweatpants and t-shirt then violently brushes his teeth, growing annoyed when the small imperfections refuse to disappear. Then he flosses for probably the first time in over a month, and predictably his gums bleed a bit, but not as much as he was anticipating. He considers shaving, but decides that would be overkill. Besides, he really doesn’t trust himself with a razor right about now. Fuck, should he put on deodorant? Before bed? No, if Eddie’s going to sleep with him he should at least have the privilege of knowing his natural scent, even if it drives Eddie to go sleep in his sister’s room down the hall.

With nothing left to do, he stares at himself in the mirror for a while longer, watching his pupils minutely dilate and contract.

He should go. Eddie’s probably waiting for him. He should go to him. Take care of him. Give him whatever he asks for.

He feels like he’s about to walk out and perform on live television. Except this is worse. This isn’t some gig he can bomb with little consequence. This is Eddie: his future. This is an audition. He needs to give the performance of a lifetime because if Eddie leaves him after this, then he’ll have to…

He’ll have to…

He sighs.

Then he’ll have to keep going.

He emerges from the bathroom and walks back to the open door of his room. Glancing inside, he sees Eddie sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, one of the yearbooks open in his lap. He raises his eyes when Richie enters.

“Hey, you know what I was just thinking?” Eddie asks casually, as if they weren’t just sucking face on that exact bed little less than half an hour ago.

“What?” Richie asks, still too shellshocked to come up with a witty response.

“I was looking through these and I realized, you, Bev, Ben, and Will are all fucking famous. You’re probably the only famous people to come out of this town. I was skimming through these and I don’t think I recognize a single other name.”

Richie smiles as he tosses his dirty clothes into his open suitcase.

“You think we’re all on the Derry Wikipedia page under the notable people section?”

“Probably. Probably right alongside that one guy in the seventies who broke the world record for beaver skinning.”

“I wonder how many Twitter followers _that guy_ has.”

As they’re talking, Richie crouches down by the side of the bed and reaches underneath, immediately feeling the soft pad of the cot beneath his hand.

He’s hoping that Eddie will stop him. He's hoping that–

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks, right on cue.

Richie stares up at him. “Pulling out the cot?” he answers innocently, and Eddie all but rolls his eyes.

“You idiot, get up here.”

He shifts to the side to make his point clear, and despite Richie’s relief, he also feels a fresh wave of trepidation.

“Hey, aren’t you married?”

“Don’t you have a fake girlfriend?” Eddie replies without missing a beat. “Come on, deep down you must’ve always known you were destined to be a home-wrecker.”

Richie laughs as he slowly crawls onto the bed. Eddie is already shifting down and settling his head on one of the pillows, so Richie does the same.

“I don’t think this bed is even big enough for us to wreck any homes in,” he says, adjusting his body at several angles, his back maybe two inches from the edge of the mattress.

“You wanna move to your parents’ bed?”

Richie’s whole body shudders involuntarily.

“Say something that disturbing again and you’ll be sleeping in my closet where you belong.”

He tenses as the words come out, regret catching in his throat.

“Beep beep, Richard.”

“Sorry, uncalled for,” Richie apologizes, wondering if it would be immature to hide beneath the blanket.

“It’s okay.” Eddie smiles, then leans forward to give Richie a kiss, a long press of lips that soothes his anxiety like medicine.

“Lights on or off?” Eddie asks quietly, with clear intent.

Richie freezes, caught off guard even though he knew this was coming. The two options tug back and forth in his mind, the confirmation of what’s about to happen decimating his cognitive reasoning.

“Off,” he replies on impulse, and immediately regrets it. But it’s too late, Eddie is already leaning over to switch off the bedside lamp.

Fuck, why did he say that? Of course he wants to see Eddie. He wants to see him so fucking badly. He’s just not confident enough to be on the receiving end.

The room goes dark, and then Eddie is shuffling closer, slowly extending an arm over Richie’s back. But before things can go any further, Richie remembers to pull off his glasses and set them next to the lamp, the darkness too deep for him to notice much difference.

With all the formalities filed away, Richie cautiously places a hand on Eddie’s lower back and slowly runs it to the top of his spine, the simple warmth and contact already sparking something between his legs. Then he gently squeezes his shoulder, and is surprised when he feels rock hard muscle beneath.

“Fuck, dude, did you get trap implants, what the fuck are these?” He squeezes again for emphasis, and Eddie gives a breathy laugh.

“Good fitness tip: if you want to get in shape, develop crippling hypochondria.”

“I’m seriously considering it. Jesus, you could block up a dam with these.”

Richie blindly gropes down along his back, dense muscle waiting for him at every stop. Fuck, if his self-esteem wasn’t already dead in a bucket this might have been the finishing blow.

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Eddie laughs, then shifts forward to kiss Richie again, slow and deep. He hums contentedly as he presses more of his weight into it, and Richie reciprocates as best he can. Their mouths sometimes fall out of alignment as they try to read each other’s rhythm, but eventually they settle into an easy pattern that feels as safe as the rise and fall of a swing.

“You’re gonna break in half if you strain any harder,” Eddie says while running a hand over Richie’s exposed arm, which is indeed coiled so tight the tendons might just snap.

“Sorry,” Richie apologizes, willing his muscles to relax. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes have adjusted enough that he can now see the curve of Eddie’s smile in the dark, even though the rest of his features are blurry. So for the first time, Richie initiates the kiss. He gives Eddie’s lips a playful peck before running his tongue along his upper lip, his body vibrating when he feels Eddie arch into it. They kiss like children taking turns. Their lips grow wet with saliva and steam as they inch their bodies closer until their chests are flush, but they still keep their hips tactfully distant.

“Does this hurt?” Richie asks as he gently grazes his thumb over the gauze on Eddie’s cheek.

“No more than talking,” he answers, then presses back in.

They’re both careful not to open their mouths too wide, but fuck, Richie wants to. He wants to abandon all decorum and gnaw on Eddie’s lips and feel the clink of teeth and wrap their tongues together and savor the taste of toothpaste and the desperate sounds they’re swallowing.

But there will be time for all that later, he hopes.

God, he hopes.

Eddie pulls away a bit, breathing heavy, and Richie takes it as an invitation to start kissing along his jaw.

“I’ve wanted this since I was fourteen,” Eddie says, his voice low and dizzy.

“Twelve,” Richie replies between kisses.

“You fucking idiot,” Eddie groans.

“Hey, you could’ve made the first move,” Richie says with faux offense, pulling away from his jaw as punishment.

“Yeah, but you were higher up the totem pole than me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on. My voice didn’t break till fifteen. By then you had girls swarming around you like fruit flies.”

“That’s actually a pretty apt term.”

Eddie admirably holds back a laugh as he presses his lips to Richie’s jaw, prompting him to lift his chin for better access.

“I would just fucking stare at you like the sun was shining out of your ass,” Eddie mumbles against his skin. “You really didn’t get it?”

“Why do you think I kept forcing you into staring contests?” he asks, then lets out an undignified gasp when Eddie reaches the spot below his ear.

“Why do you think I kept agreeing to them even though I always lost?”

“Right, you were paranoid that the dust would accumulate on your eyes and you’d get an infection.”

God, he remembers those showdowns. He loved them because they provided him with the perfect excuse to stare directly into Eddie’s eyes for a minute or more, which gave him ample time to memorize the color shifts in his irises so he could write bad poetry about them at a later date.

They laugh, then find each other’s lips again. And it’s getting easier. Their mouths intuitively move at equal paces as they shift and turn to accommodate each other. Wet and tender but so sweet that Richie is actually starting to feel like a kid again. A gangly, sensitive teenager desperate for adulthood and so fucking ungrateful for the blessing and charm of childhood. Fuck, it would have been so, so good back then. Exactly like this, but without the grate of stubble or the anti-depressants in his system.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, breaking away from the kiss. “Is it cool if we don’t go full premarital tonight? Just until you get tested? It’s not that I think you’re a cesspool for disease or anything, it’s just that I don’t trust you in the slightest.”

Richie has to take a pause just to process his deep-rooted jealousy over the fact that Eddie has always been the funnier of the two of them. Just how some people have perfect pitch, Eddie’s comedic timing has never been off. It’s unfair really. Richie has spent his entire life trying so damn hard, but Eddie could always go toe to toe with him without breaking a sweat.

But once that thought passes, he realizes that he’s actually relieved that Eddie wants to wait. So relieved that he decides not to tell him that he got tested at his last physical two months ago and came up completely clean. He hates lying by omission, but the thought of being inside Eddie, or vice versa, is just too much to think about right now, especially since they had their first kiss less than an hour ago.

“Yeah, of course,” Richie says. “We can keep everything above the belt.”

“I never said that,” Eddie retorts dryly, then presses his hips forward, no doubt with an evil glint in his eyes.

Richie can’t even come up with a witty comeback. Without thinking he grabs the back of Eddie’s thigh and pulls his leg over his own, melding their bodies together in one swift motion. The change is jarring, but it feels right. Now Richie can feel the hard outline of Eddie’s cock pressing against his thigh, and he knows Eddie can feel his in return.

They adjust themselves without speaking, maneuvering into a comfortable position, one that allows them to slot together seamlessly as they move in fluid thrusts, both choking out throttled moans as they move in time, finding the right tempo of push and pull, grinding against each other like teenagers humping their pillows.

“Is this how you would’ve done it?” Eddie asks out of the blue. “Back then, if I’d asked you to sleep up here with me?”

Richie shudders with a sudden jolt of arousal. Fuck, this night has already unlocked an obscene amount of repressed fantasies, he doesn’t need Eddie unearthing any more.

“No,” Richie laughs. “I would’ve been a mess. I would’ve… I would’ve done this because I saw it in an R-rated movie.”

He pushes himself onto his elbow so he can lean forward to suck on Eddie’s earlobe, earning him a slap on the shoulder.

“Ugh, I hate that shit,” Eddie whines beneath him, but Richie can practically hear his smile without looking.

“I also would’ve tried some of this.”

He reaches up to tug on Eddie’s hair in a decidedly unsexy manner.

“Ow.”

“And I would’ve kissed you like this.”

He drags his tongue up Eddie’s closed lips in a flat stroke, feeling Eddie wince beneath him.

“Wait, is that not how you’re supposed to do it?”

Richie laughs as he goes in for his next attack.

“And I would’ve bitten your neck in all the wrong ways.”

He gives a playful nip to the tendon extending down into Eddie’s shoulder, but not nearly hard enough to leave a mark.

“I’m pretty sure this counts as assault,” Eddie attempts to choke out in a serious tone, but Richie can feel the restrained laughed quaking in his chest.

“What about you? What would you have done?” Richie asks as he begins mouthing along the line of his neck, rubbing his thigh between Eddie’s legs.

“I would’ve been paralyzed, man. Fucking deer in the headlights.”

Eddie’s voice breaks in a groan as he raises his pelvis hard against Richie’s thigh, rocking into him as if he were trying to chafe away the fabric separating them.

“You were so small,” Richie whispers into his ear, hoping to provoke a reaction. “I would’ve been scared of crushing you.”

“Hey, I shot up during sophomore year.”

“Yeah, I know. But remember those couple months where I was literally a foot taller than you?”

“Ten inches. We measured.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

“Yeah, but your comedy’s not _that _bad.”

“Yes it is.”

Eddie lets out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, it is.”

Richie can’t even find space in his head to feel offended. Instead he decides to shut Eddie up by locking their lips together and reaching down to grab the back of Eddie’s thigh so he can hoist him in closer, if that’s even possible.

Fuck, it feels so good; but it’s rapidly growing unbearable. The way the fabric of his sweatpants is chafing against his dick as he ruts against the solid muscle of Eddie’s thigh. Pressure building with the strain of the exercise as his nerves scream out for something soft and wet.

He grips Eddie’s leg tighter, then slackens his hand when he realizes that he might leave bruises, but then Eddie starts letting out these throaty, anguished sounds and all Richie can do is hold on tight.

He’s sure it’s going to end like this. He’s so fucking ready and Eddie seems to be on the same page.

But suddenly, he finds himself flat on his back with Eddie leaning over him, the change in position so sudden he’s surprised that Eddie didn’t just roll them straight off the bed.

Eddie’s thigh is still a warm weight between his legs, but now he’s moving slower, grinding up his body in long strokes that sometimes barely graze Richie’s crotch. And when Richie tries to arch into him, Eddie pulls away with teasing dexterity. The torture continues as Eddie leans down to kiss him, just a few soft pecks that leave Richie aching.

“I never got this as a kid,” Eddie says, his pace picking up slightly before easing back again.

“Never got what?” Richie asks, reaching down to grip Eddie’s hips.

“This. Any of it. I didn’t sleep with anyone till I was twenty-two.”

“You got me beat. I was twenty-four.”

“You fucking loser. You were doing standup about dental dams by then.”

Despite the unparalleled amount of heat radiating off his body, Richie can still feel himself blush through all three layers of skin.

“You seriously watched all of my old shit?”

“Some of it. On my phone at the inn.”

“And you still decided to crawl into bed with me?”

“That should give you a rough idea of how bad my marriage is.”

Richie laughs, too high at the moment to dwell on the implications of their infidelity. Because Eddie is here. Between his legs, his mouth as smart as ever, and his body is all hard muscle and he wants this so badly and there’s a whole fucking world waiting for them after this.

It’s over. It’s finally over. His entire adult life of only half-assed happiness; cycling through partners like prescription drugs.

It’s over.

But fuck, what would this have been like if they were still teenagers? Eddie said he’s wanted this since he was fourteen. Even if his mom still forced him to leave Derry in ’93, that’s still three years they could’ve had this. Exactly this.

All those summers when his parents were at work, they could have been in this very bed. Touching each other above the covers and feeling the sunlight pour across their backs. Growing in each other’s arms, adjusting to each other’s changing bodies as they clumsily traversed through puberty in rocky steps.

It would have been beautiful. He can see it. A hundred lazy summer days rocking against each other, inside each other, learning how to take care of their newborn nerves. Teaching each other what felt right, where they needed to be touched, wringing out every last drop and discovering in their naivety that there was too much skin for them to kiss.

It would have been perfect. And maybe if all that had happened, if he just once found the nerve to reach for Eddie’s hand in the privacy of this room, then maybe they would have found a way to leave Derry together. Maybe they could’ve had each other all this time.

Or maybe that was never an option. Maybe that was something this town was always meant to steal from them.

“Hey,” Eddie breathes above him, his lips glossy in the darkness. “Can we do this like we would’ve done it back then?”


	4. Chapter 4

Richie grits his teeth as he reflexively arches hard against Eddie’s thigh, worrying for a second that he’ll finish right then and there, but it passes quickly - a small mercy.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early for role-playing?” he says with a weak laugh, trying to hide the fact that Eddie just effortlessly voiced one of his deepest fantasies.

“Well, unfortunately I can’t jerk off to you at fifteen anymore because that’s a felony. Which sucks ‘cause you were much prettier back then.”

“At fifteen? My hands hung down to my knees.”

“Your legs grew out eventually.”

Richie smiles as Eddie leans down to kiss him again, quickly overshadowing his traumatic flashbacks of gangly limbs and wispy facial hair.

Fuck, he’s running out of words to describe whatever the hell is happening in this new post-traumatic stage of his autobiography. He’s struggling to adequately absorb the multi-pronged assault on his body: the rough glide of Eddie’s lips, the surreal weight of his cock, the sweat soaking through their shirts, and the smell saturating the room. It’s probably safe to say that the scent of drywall and air freshener has now been buried beneath something else entirely. A familiar scent that has probably been lying dormant in the pores of this room for decades. A smell he always used to hate as a teenager, as he could always feel it clinging to his skin like the stench of cigarettes, and no amount of soap or actual tobacco smoke could adequately hide it.

It was resilient, unforgiving, and unchanging. 

He presses his mouth to Eddie’s neck and breathes in discreetly, hoping to block out the residual memory of his own scent and replace it with something sweeter. God, is this what Eddie used to smell like back then? No, probably not. But he hates that he can’t say for certain.

“Yeah,” he whispers against Eddie’s neck, “we can do it that way. Whatever that way is.”

God, he can already picture it in his head. The two of them lying side by side in this very bed some twenty-odd years ago, exchanging awkward kisses as they poked and teased at each other’s clothing, anxiously searching for consent but far too scared to simply ask for it.

He wants that. He wants to feel like a kid again. He wants to go back and start all over. He wants to forget the fear that overtook him every time he felt the urge to reach for Eddie’s hand. In the arcade, the movie theater, the quarry, the clubhouse, this very bed, hundreds upon thousands of wasted opportunities. 

And now he knows that Eddie wanted it. 

He was waiting for it.

All Richie had to do was take his hand. One surge of bravery, and everything else would have fallen into place.

Fuck, why is he doing this to himself? Eddie’s right here. Sure, it’s a lifetime too late, but they’re here now, exactly where they’re supposed to be. He needs to get out of his damn head. Stop constructing these elaborate post-mortem fantasies of some idealized childhood that never existed.

Eddie’s right here. You have him. He wants you. Stay here.

“Just…” Eddie says quietly as he raises himself off of Richie’s thigh and settles between his legs. Richie can feel his blood thumping in his ears as he spreads his legs farther apart so Eddie can press in closer, trying to suppress his juvenile shame at putting himself in such a position.

Then without warning, Eddie thrusts against him, eliciting mutual gasps as their cocks finally meet through the fabric separating them.

“Shit,” Richie chokes out, reaching up to grip the nape of Eddie’s shirt.

“Relax, dude, it’s only second base,” Eddie whispers, his mocking tone belied by the desperate shifting of his hips.

And before Richie can muster the lung capacity to beg for more, Eddie starts moving. Those infuriatingly slow thrusts that only serve to delay the inevitable. But Richie soaks it in and voices no complaint, his mouth agape and eyes shut tight, an uninterrupted string of embarrassing sounds escaping past his teeth.

“I would’ve been a lot smaller back then,” Eddie laughs while reaching down to grope at Richie’s thigh.

“Eh, not that much smaller.”

“Fuck you.”

Richie can only laugh for half a second before another moan overtakes him.

God, it hurts. It burns. The cotton of his sweatpants chaffing hard against his dick, a blunt barrier between their naked skin. Their bodies are so close. So close. But Eddie probably won’t let them get any closer, as there are obviously STIs that can spread through skin contact. 

He could tell Eddie the truth. He could tell him that he’s completely clean. But at this point, would Eddie even believe him? I mean, if he didn’t mention it earlier, why mention it now?

No, this is enough. More than enough. Even if it taps into some unpleasant memories.

He wishes he could say that coming in his pants was an artifact of puberty, but even at forty it’s not uncommon for him to wake up in the middle of the night to find his crotch obscenely wet. He doesn’t need a professional to tell him that he has a piss-poor sex life, but what is he supposed to do?

For him, sex has never been anything but a survival mechanism. He’d seek it out whenever the touch-starvation overcame him like a fever. When even a pat on the back or a handshake would send his system into shock.

Whenever he was desperate enough he could usually find a woman willing to take pity on him. Someone who would let him hold her naked body throughout the night, feeding off her like an IV drip, the softness and warmth of her skin soothing his starving nerves.

Then the tremor in his hands would abate. The bugs crawling beneath his skin would retire to their nest. A single one-night stand could last him four or five months before he needed another hit. And over the course of the last fifteen years he’s managed to find a handful of women who he would guiltily call friends. Ones who must know what’s really going on. Why he texts them on Sunday nights reeking of cigarettes, his hands shaking as he removes his glasses before they even start undressing.

They know. Of course they know.

And even in the middle of the act, he’d find himself wondering if this is all there was. If it was too late for him. If he could really sustain himself on this for the rest of his life. Then a second later he’d start berating himself for his masturbatory self-pity. Of course it wasn’t too late. He could tweet it out tomorrow and the sun would still rise and fall and life would fucking go on.

Sure, it’d be annoying as all fuck. Both the hate from the right and the laudations from the left. Liberal social media would probably plaster it on billboards. Richie Tozier, that insufferable idiot, we all know he built his career on a trash fire of lies but all is forgiven because it turns out he wanted to fuck men all along. What a touching success story.

God, why did he have to become famous? What possessed him, what infected him with this desire - this desperation - to stand on a giant fucking stage and rant about exaggerated mundanities? If he were nobody then things would be simpler. If he were nobody then all the other nobodies wouldn’t give a shit. But as things are now, telling the truth would be a statement. It’d be an event. It’d be a fucking trending topic and he doesn’t want any of that.

He just wants the loneliness to go away. That’s it.

God, why the fuck did he do this to himself?

Why is he so fucking scared?

So he might have to do an interview or two, who fucking cares? That’s better than ten years ago when he would’ve been quietly taken out of rotation. And twenty years ago he would’ve been blacklisted wholesale. 

His life won’t fall apart. He’s pretty sure his parents won’t care. Besides, they’ve already more or less resigned themselves to the fact that he’ll never give them grandchildren. He doesn’t give a shit about the fans who’d trash talk him online, and he can’t think of a single friend or acquaintance in LA or New York or anywhere who would give a shit.

So why is he so fucking scared?

He deserves to be happy. He deserves it now and he deserved it back then. God, all those nights he could’ve pulled Eddie into this very bed. Touched him and loved him. The thought of being fourteen again: scared and insecure, miserable about everyone and everything but so damn in love that did any of that other stuff even matter?

He could’ve had Eddie. He could’ve had him just like this. Small bodies and nervous mouths, the innocence of it all siphoning away the toxic sludge powering the engine of his brain, silencing the malicious voices grinding against his eardrums, his own traitorous internal monologue whispering that this wasn’t right.

This will get him killed.

In those moments it always felt so cataclysmic. Those nights when Eddie slept in his bed as Richie lay on the floor in the softly-lit darkness, growing hard while staring at the soft contours of Eddie’s sleeping face. He’d find himself sweating beneath the blankets as his eyes traced the pale fingers dangling over the edge of the mattress, dirty thoughts assaulting erogenous zones he didn’t even know he had.

He could’ve just climbed into the bed. He could’ve woken Eddie up with soft nudges against his knees. He could’ve confessed everything, and enjoyed the reciprocation in Eddie’s voice and body.

But instead he would shamefully sneak out of the room and lock himself in the bathroom. He’d sink into the empty tub without bothering to turn on the lights, his toes curling against the porcelain as he quietly, so quietly, so quickly, tried to jerk himself off. And his clothes would cling to his damp skin and the smell would smother him as he roamed through the darkest corners of his mind in search of something, anything, that would make the agony go away.

It was always Eddie. He came to thoughts of Eddie in every iteration. Groaning into his elbow, so impossibly quiet for the hurricane inside his head. And once the worst of it was expunged, he’d run a damp washcloth over his skin and try to sneak back to his room where the nightmares were waiting with open arms.

They were a treat he always had to look forward to whenever he fell asleep too quickly after getting off. Vivid, visceral spirals that would drag him down and snap his bones into revolting shapes. Dreams that compressed his chest, sent him running, screaming, pounding against non-existent doors in neverending corridors as taunting voices followed him with tongues as long as telephone wires. Dreams that made him piss himself on more than one occasion, but thankfully never while Eddie was in the room.

The nightmares were so unbearable that he quickly learned that he had to stay awake for at least an hour after getting off. Otherwise he’d just sink down into a maze of perpetual stairwells, electric chairs, and tall buildings begging him to jump.

God, he completely forgot about the nightmares. Well, they were impossible to forget entirely, considering that they still plague him to this day. But he forgot how young he was when they first started to manifest. 

Eddie starts moving faster, prompting Richie to open his eyes, even though he can’t discern much beyond the general outline of Eddie’s features. 

He suddenly remembers where he is. What he’s doing. How the hell could he let himself get so lost in his own head at a time like this? Eddie is on top of him. They’re having sex. Does this even count as sex? Do the technicalities even matter at this point?

Eddie is moving faster now. His careful grinding shifting and stalling as he presses down hard and moves in short, concentrated thrusts. And even in his legal blindness, Richie can see his brow clenching tight, his mouth open in a silent moan. 

He’s close. Just keep going. Get him there and everything will be okay.

He can feel heat brimming in his legs, radiating from his thighs down to his toes, which are twitching and flexing erratically.

Then Eddie starts to speak, his voice strained and airy:

“I would’ve let you do this,” he says in one breath. “If you’d just crawled on top of me and started doing this, I would’ve let you.” Then he closes his eyes and no more words find their way out.

Richie’s chest cavity caves in.

So it was a waste.

It was all a waste.

Keep going. Don’t stop. If you don’t make it you’ll die.

Suddenly dry ice shoots down his spine as he realizes that he can’t remember if he closed the curtains after opening the window earlier. His head quickly snaps to the side, but between the darkness, his shit vision, and the dark blue of the curtains, he can’t tell if they’re open or closed.

His ears start ringing. White, hollow noise. The wall starts shifting, jerking left to right. Nausea curdles around his insides. Black spots start appearing across his vision and he inhales sharply in the hope of clearing them away, but his chest continues constricting in time with Eddie’s thrusts.

He counts them: one, two, three, four, why is it taking so long?

Eddie should be finished by now. Is it because of Richie? Is he doing something wrong?

He forces more oxygen past the blockage in his throat, the air desperately trying to bypass the weight of Eddie’s chest bearing down on him.

Richie still can’t tear his eyes away from the window. Not even as Eddie’s breath goes ragged, a moan rising from his chest as his pelvis sinks deep into Richie’s body as though he were actually trying to penetrate him, a thought that evokes far more fear than arousal.

Eddie just came. Yet he still can’t tear his eyes away from the window, wondering if anyone can see them. How long have they been watching? How many people will they tell?

The black spots have almost completely subsumed his vision, and Richie tries to brace himself for the very real possibility that he might black out. The world is already peeling away like wallpaper, the sweat on his back clinging to his skin like sickly leeches, his body pulsating with the certainty that everything is going to fall apart.

Eddie will leave him. Not that they were ever together to begin with. But still, he’ll leave, and that will be it. And Richie will rot away like the bacterial scum that Eddie is always trying to scrub off his hands.

He hardly notices when Eddie reaches down the front of his sweatpants, but the grip of a warm hand is enough to rouse him back to quasi-lucidity. 

No, this can’t be real. This world of darkness, open curtains, and chest convulsions, it’s just another trick. Another nightmare. 

Eddie can’t really want him. Eddie, who looks different, and sounds different, but it’s him nonetheless. Stop it, shut the fuck up. Eddie’s right here. Between your legs and trying so hard to make you feel good and you’re fucking wasting it.

Be thankful. You’re both alive. You’re safe. Nothing is coming after you. The curtains are closed. You definitely closed them. No one is watching.

God, it’s the same smell as he remembers. It’s overpowering, and unsettling, and he feels like he might just gag on it.

And it hurts. It hurts so fucking badly. And while he knows that the pain won’t go away until he comes, he’s on the verge of begging Eddie to stop.

He needs to make it stop.

“Eddie,” he manages to choke out, blindly reaching for his shoulder.

“That’s my name, yeah,” Eddie says, and Richie can see the white of his teeth, which means he must be smiling.

Just then he realizes that he can feel it starting to build, and build quickly. The telltale heat and pressure signifying his imminent escape. He won’t have to endure this much longer, and a small measure of relief eases the brunt of his panic. He won’t have to make up an excuse for not being able to come. He won’t have to see the hurt on Eddie’s face when he can’t get there.

No, he’s fine. He’ll be fine.

It’ll be over soon, and then the paralysis will go away. This feeling of being locked into his own muscles, his soft tissue ossifying into bone, anxiety dripping down his spine like an IV, Eddie’s face completely obscured by pulsing black dots.

He inhales hard, feeling his ears pop and heart palpate.

Almost. Almost.

It’s Eddie. Eddie is making you come. Eddie is your friend. Eddie…

You love him. You love him and it’s going to kill you.

Right then, he makes it past the tipping point.

He can hear the ocean rushing past his ears as he plummets deep down inside his head. Sinking, falling, the orgasm hitting him with rending violence as his whole body twists like a strung out rag. It swallows him. Buries him. And when it’s over, his first gasp feels like breaking the surface of the dirty water in the quarry.

He feels Eddie withdraw his hand and collapse beside him, one arm splayed across his chest and a leg draped over his own.

Richie tries to move. Tries to speak.

But he can’t.  
  
He’s still drowning, and it’s worse than before, the liquid chemicals coursing through him like a line of coke, eliciting a tremor that wracks his entire body. Wretched fear gnawing away at every thought, every fraction of a thought. 

Fear of what comes next. Fear that Eddie will walk out of this room and never return, thankful for the mess he left behind.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe his brain is just finally processing all of the fucked up shit they’ve been through over the last couple of days, and it just took some heightened hormones and heavy breathing to bring it all to the surface.

Or maybe it’s because he wasted two-thirds of his life - the best years of his life - lonely and hungry while the answer to everything was right here just waiting for him to reach out.

He has to believe it was the town’s doing. If they were born and raised anywhere else, anywhere else in the world, then he would have remembered Eddie. He would’ve written, called, subjected himself to transnational Greyhound rides all for the chance to hold Eddie in his arms. It was just this fucking town and Pennywise lurking beneath it.

He has to direct all of his anger at the clown because the alternative is that he was so much of a coward that he squandered away his own life.

And he’s still so fucking scared. He feels sick with the amount of fear sitting in his digestive system. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything else. Like a stomach virus that eliminates the ability to think about anything beyond the pain in one’s body.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly, and a new surge of terror blankets Richie’s body.

His heart is racing and his hands are going numb and fuck is this what a heart attack feels like? Did he survive Pennywise just to die here? At least there are worse places to say goodbye. He’s in his room, in his bed, with the most beautiful person in the world still at his side against all odds.

Suddenly he feels tears pinching at the corners of his eyes as it dawns on him that he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t fucking want to die.

“Richie, hey man, you alright?”

Richie tries to open his eyes, but the room is still spinning. The smell is still overpowering. Eddie’s smell, his own, sweat and cum and spit, it’s all over. Richie breathes through his mouth and immediately coughs the air back up, feeling as if he just inhaled mercury. The noxious fumes of a gas leak. It’s burning his nostrils and seeping into the back of his throat and giving him cancer.

“Yeah,” he manages to choke out. He meant to attach an _ I’m fine _ to the end of it, but best laid plans and all that.

Eddie suddenly turns away and the room bursts with light. It’s just the single-bulb bedside lamp, but it causes the dark spots to pulse in protest.

He brings a hand up to his eyes, both to block out the light and to prevent Eddie from seeing the tears steadily streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Richie sniffs before Eddie can asks any questions. “I’m sorry, I just need…” He pushes himself upright far quicker than he should have, and immediately has to bow his head between his knees as the head rush hits him.

“Do you feel sick?” Eddie asks, resting a hand on his sweat-soaked shoulder.

“No, I’m fine. I just need to get out of these clothes. The smell, it’s…” He doesn’t finish. The smell is what? Disgusting? Yes, but he can’t say that to Eddie. This is his bullshit. He can’t let Eddie think for one second that he doesn’t want this. That he wouldn't die without it. Fuck, if Eddie leaves him after this he’s not sure if he’ll have the will to ever leave this house or room again.

Why the fuck is he like this? Can he blame the town for this too? Can he blame the clown for this neurosis that’s festered in him ever since third grade when he first felt the compulsion to run his finger down Eddie’s spine while waiting in the cafeteria line? Something in the water. Something that lingered in his bloodstream, steadily dragging him down into an early grave. He’s sick. He’s always been sick.

“I’m sorry.”

He stands from the bed, not bothering to grab his glasses. His legs are tingling with sharp needles. The room is completely blurred around him, near and far, but he’s walked this route blind many times before. So with the last of his strength he steadies himself on his feet and heads towards the door, ignoring Eddie’s worried calls. He feels his way down the hall then locks the bathroom door, and at that very moment he’s struck with a crystal clear memory of drawing the curtains shut.

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Richie quickly turns on the shower before leaning over the toilet, hoping that the water will drown out the sound of retching. He’d fucking kill himself if Eddie heard him throwing up after what they just did.

He gags once, twice, but thankfully nothing comes up.

Eventually the roiling nausea settles to the point where he’s able to pull himself up to the counter. Blindly, he digs through his toiletry bag, collecting the various orange plastic bottles. He holds one an inch from his face, trying to read the label: Dimenhy– it’s his anti-nausea medication. He unscrews the lid and knocks one back before cupping his hands to drink from the tap, no longer concerned about whatever might be tainting Derry’s water supply.

Then he grabs the three remaining bottles and has to cycle through his regular anti-depressants and thyroid medication before finding his near-empty bottle of Ativan, which he’s been ploughing through since receiving the call from Mike.

He curses under his breath as he struggles to pry the lid open, nearly sending the little white pills flying. Eventually he manages to stick one on the back of his tongue and gulp down some more water, his panic abating slightly once he feels it wash down smoothly.

Then he tugs off his damp shirt, cringing at the stench of the fabric as it passes his nose. He yanks off his sweatpants and uses them to wipe away the cum sticking to his abdomen. Then he steps into the shower and twists the knob so that it’s barely above lukewarm. With that point of order taken care of, he unceremoniously sinks down to sit against the porcelain floor.

He breathes. And waits. Tries to get a grip on himself as the drugs begin their salvage efforts. God, why didn’t he take anything before going back to his room? What the fuck was he thinking?

He stares down at the blurred outline of his limp cock, the water washing away any evidence that Eddie touched him there.

Eddie. Eddie touched him. Eddie made him come.

He lets out a choked laugh and brings a hand up to cover his useless eyes, shielding them from the onslaught of the water. A string of involuntary curses spill past his teeth as he tugs at his hair and presses his dizzy head between his knees.

He’s such a fucking idiot. Eddie was his ticket out of here. The key to his escape room. His only opportunity to get out of this town, out of this spiral, out of this joke of a life that stopped being funny the second he heard his first slur.

What is he supposed to do without Eddie? He’s running out of time. In another twenty-seven years he’ll be sixty-seven, and another twenty-seven after that he’ll be dead. There’s no one else waiting for him. There’s no one else he wants. He’s stunted, he’s a wreck, he stopped socially maturing at the age of seventeen and now he’s trapped here in his childhood home wishing more than anything that he could go back and try again. Grow up into someone better. Someone whole.

Why should he even bother coming out if Eddie won’t be there with him? Eddie was his only incentive, his only reward. Without him he has nothing but two decades worth of depressing closet jokes, most of which are too morbid to make it past the test audiences.

There’s no way out of this. His only exit is the bathroom door. He needs to find Eddie and apologize. Beg. Suck his cock until his neck gives out to prove how badly he wants this.

Or maybe Eddie will just leave. Maybe he’ll pack up his thirteen suitcases and go back to the inn and–

“Hey, Richie!”

All the muscles in Richie’s body spasm at once. He darts forward to turn off the water, straining his ears through the curtain.

“Yeah, I’m here!”

Fuck, of all the stupid shit he could’ve said.

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie calls back sarcastically. “Thanks for the clarification. Listen, um, I brought you some clothes. I didn’t want to go through your stuff so these are just mine. You don’t have to wear them.”

Richie resists the urge to bang his head against the wall.

He hadn’t given a thought to what he was going to wear back to his room, but it certainly wasn’t going to be the sweat and cum-soaked clothes he came in with.

Embarrassment throttles him tight, accompanied by that chronic sense of shame that always seems to settle down right before flaring up with renewed infection.

“Thanks!” he calls back. He doesn’t say it, but he will most definitely be wearing the clothes.

“No problem. And hey, I don’t know if you have anything on you, but I have some Klonopin here if you want some.”

Richie can’t help but let out a short laugh. The thought of Eddie – the kid who took one hit of a joint in ninth grade before freaking out over lung cancer – casually offering him drugs like some kind of adult.

“Thanks for the offer, but I just took some Ativan.”

“Yeah, I was on that for a while. Had to switch though. Street value wasn’t as high.”

“Stop being funny!”

“Oh yeah, what’re you going to do about it?”

“I’ll make you write my next special.”

“Harsh. I’ll try to keep a lid on it then. Wouldn’t want you getting any good ideas.”

Richie smiles down at his blurry feet, wiggling his toes in the puddle that has yet to drain.

He’s starting to feel the effects of the lorazepam setting in. Or at least he’s beginning to feel a notable absence of awfulness, which is usually where he finds a single dose plateauing.

“I’ll be out in a sec!” he calls. “Thanks for staying.”

Silence.

“You didn’t think I was going to leave, right?”

Richie swallows around nothing.

“No, sorry, just being paranoid. Seriously though, thanks.”

“No problem. And hey, um, this is stupid, but could you speed things up a bit? Being alone is kind of freaking me out. I just saw my own shadow and almost punched a wall.”

Richie quickly stands up, probably far quicker than he should have considering that eighty percent of Eddie’s precious home accidents happen in the bathroom.

“I’ll be right there!”

“No rush.”

Richie rushes anyway.

He dries himself off and rubs the towel through his disheveled hair. When he’s certain that Eddie is gone, he leans out into the hall to grab the clothes he left. He shakes out the t-shirt, hoping to find a slogan or an image or something that will give him insight into Eddie’s life and interests; but no, it’s blank, not even a toothpaste stain.

He pulls it on and steps into the sweatpants, which would probably turn him on if he weren’t so thoroughly fucked up. Then he tosses his dirty clothes into the bath, resolving to stick them in the washer some time tomorrow.

He still doesn’t have his glasses. They’re sitting on the bedside table in his room. Cracked or not, he won’t be able to get far without them. He’ll probably fall down the stairs, or maybe get as far as the mailbox, so he supposes he has no choice but to go back to his room and face the music.

He cautiously opens the bathroom door and takes a tentative step out into the hall, the cold air raising a film of goosebumps. The realization that he’s completely alone hits him hard, and he reflexively snaps his head back to make sure there’s nothing lurking behind him. It really was a mistake splitting up to collect their totems. He’d gladly spend the night with all five of them in a jail cell over spending another minute alone.

Glancing over his shoulder again, he starts walking down the hall. It’s only ten full steps to his bedroom, but the corridor seems to stretch on like a house of mirrors.

The door is half open, and when he looks inside he can see Eddie leaning over the bed. Or at least an Eddie-shaped blur.

“What’re you doing?” he asks. The Eddie-shaped blur stands up straight. “That wasn’t rhetorical by the way. I seriously can’t see shit.”

The being that he’s now reasonably certain is Eddie lets out a breathy laugh. Then he grabs what Richie can only assume are his glasses off the bedside table and moves closer, the outline of his form getting clearer with each step.

“Just changing the sheets. I grabbed them off your sister’s bed.”

Eddie places the glasses in his waiting palm. Richie unfolds them and hooks them over his ears, and the room around him comes into sharp focus, as if he just upgraded a video from 180p to 4k. He can now see the soft wrinkles in Eddie’s skin. The individual pores on his nose. And suddenly Richie remembers the small mole he had on his cheek.

_“Hey, at least if it was cancer Bowers probably cut it out for me.”_

Richie laughed harder than he should have at that.

Once his vision adjusts, he shifts his focus to the bedside lamp, valiantly avoiding Eddie’s eyes.

“You know, I always thought seeing you in my clothes would be a lot sexier,” Eddie says, awkwardly crossing his arms and shuffling his feet.

“You think about that a lot?”

“No, not really. But one time I accidentally wore one of your shirts home and never gave it back.”

Richie smiles. “Is there anything left of it?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie shrugs. “It definitely took a beating.”

Richie almost collapses to the floor.

“Why are you so goddamn funny?”

“I’m not. You just like me.”

Richie flushes hard. “Yeah, but you don’t have to call me out like that.”

He’s sweating again, but now he’s painfully self-conscious that he’s wearing Eddie’s clothes and should for all intents and purposes be begging on his knees for Eddie to forget whatever the fuck happened in this room not twenty minutes ago.

They have to talk about it. That’s what people do. That’s what–

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Eddie says, unprompted and guilty, forcing Richie into action.

“Don’t you dare finish that thought.”

“No, seriously, I’ve had a fuck ton of panic attacks in my life. I should know the signs by now.”

“Then you should also know that the signs can look remarkably similar to other things.”

It’s weird, Richie has said every combination of obscenity in front of audiences numbering in the thousands, yet for some reason simply acknowledging that Eddie watched him come sends his face flaring.

“Still, I’m sorry it happened.”

The conversation stalls. Richie wants to climb out the window.

Then Eddie turns away and sits on the edge of the bed, shooting Richie a glance that tells him in no uncertain terms to sit his ass down. He obediently complies, sinking down into the clean sheets and trying not to imagine what they must have looked like rutting against each other, his legs spread wide with Eddie writhing on top of him.

The first time he’s ever had sex in this room. Only twenty-plus years too late.

“If it makes you feel any better, it used to happen to me all the time,” Eddie says while picking at his nails. “I’d be five seconds away from putting it in when I’d get these visions of contracting every STD in the world. And what are you supposed to say to a girl in that scenario? ‘Hey, I know we’re pretty far along, but I’m suddenly terrified you’re going to give me AIDS, so could you kindly get the fuck out?’”

Richie laughs under his breath, but there’s a manic twinge to Eddie’s voice that implies that he’s in no way exaggerating.

“If it makes you feel any better, I got tested a few months back and came up clean. Except for oral herpes. The type one kind.”

“Eh, everybody has that. I have that.”

“You slut.”

Eddie smiles and looks back down at his feet.

“And I haven’t been with anyone else since,” Richie stammers, his face hot. “Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

He knows why. Regardless, he just hopes that Eddie won’t be upset. Damn, the Ativan really isn’t doing as much heavy lifting as he’d hoped.

“It’s cool,” Eddie says with a shrug. “It’s stupid, but that actually does make me feel better. While you were having your meltdown in the shower I actually scrubbed my hand raw just in case you had syphilis.”

Richie looks at Eddie’s right hand, and sure enough, it’s a shade pinker than his left.

Richie feels his insides cramp painfully.

“Can you actually get that from skin contact?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Obviously not through hand jobs, but my mind is an enigma. I can get hepatitis from hangnails and malaria from razor burn.” Eddie laughs as he curls his abused hand into a loose fist. “And it’s been getting worse. I mean, the older you get the more shit happens to you. And every hypochondriac is proved right sooner or later.”

Richie can’t even muster a fake smile. Eddie is still picking at his nails, scratching at the cuticles, and Richie wants so badly to reach out and steady his hand. Encase it in warmth hot enough to kill whatever germs are crawling beneath his skin. But instead he remains stagnant, the urge to touch him swelling like a balloon.

“Sorry,” Eddie says after a moment, running a hand through his hair. “Full disclosure, I just took some Klonopin and I’m still on those hospital painkillers, so sorry if I seem kind of high.”

Richie manages a soft laugh at that. It’s a testament to how fucked up they are that they can’t even have a chill conversation while on prescription depressants.

“If half a milligram of Klonopin and some Codeine cut with Ibuprofen is enough to get you there, then that’s fucking adorable.”

“Yeah, you can make fun of me on Twitter later.”

Richie’s about to make some half-baked joke about recreational anti-inflammatories, but then Eddie places a hand over his own, thoroughly shutting him up.

Richie’s breath catches. His hand goes stiff as Eddie’s thumb begins awkwardly grazing the wiry hair on the back of his knuckles, which he’s never felt self-conscious about until right now.

Tension hangs in the air. Richie scours for something say, wondering if he should kiss Eddie just to fill the space. Damn, their conversations used to flow so naturally when they were kids, even when punctuated by literal punches.

Eddie gives his hand a light squeeze, their mutual tremble falling in rhythm.

“I’m sorry for rushing things earlier. I escalated that really quickly. Like, ten minutes till dinner reservations quickly.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being horny around me.”

“I think I owe myself an apology for that one. But still, I should’ve… been able to tell. In hindsight it was obvious.”

“I’m a grown-ass man, Eds. I can speak up for myself.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have rushed things anyway. I guess I just…” his voice trails off as he stares at the window, the strokes of his thumb coming to a standstill. Then he lets out a sigh, moisture glazing his eyes.

“Twenty-seven years.” Eddie breathes it more than he says it, and once again, Richie feels so unbearably, excruciatingly old.

“I know the feeling,” he says in kind, turning his hand over so he can lace their fingers together.

“By the way, it had nothing to do with you,” he says in the sincerest voice he can manage. “I just got stuck inside my head and started digging up a lot of old shit. Shit I can’t change.”

Eddie gives a small nod, and Richie can tell that he’s being quiet because saying another word might bring him to tears.

“And I’ve never done that with another person with a dick before,” Richie says quickly, too fast, an irrational flush spreading up his neck.

Eddie just smiles. “That makes two of us. Two people with dicks.”

Eddie extracts his hand so he can press it against his eyes, staunching the tears that are probably begging to spill over.

“Do you like women too?” Eddie asks. His voice is casual, but it still causes a cold sweat to break over Richie's skin. 

Part of him considers lying. He could probably get away with saying that he likes women but prefers men. That wouldn’t be so disgustingly pitiful, right? He doesn’t have to tell Eddie that sometimes he disassociates so hard during sex that it fucks up his memory. How many one-month relationships he’s bailed on after reaching his max tolerance for cunnilingus. How many times he’s come dangerously close to paying for sex, his paranoia the only thing holding him back.

Damn, he could really use a cigarette right about now. Or something stronger.

“I can get hard for them, but that’s about it,” he answers with a forced smile, his eyes trained on his feet so that he doesn’t have to see Eddie’s reaction.

“Hey, you’re leaving your wife, right? I feel like we didn’t definitively establish that.” The words come out fast in a blatant attempt to change the subject. Eddie looks at him quizzically, reading his motives clear as day.

“The infidelity wasn’t clear enough?”

Richie shrugs. “Hey, lots of people like side dishes. I could be your coleslaw.”

Eddie gives him a pity laugh before crossing his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, I’m leaving her. I haven’t told her yet though. I’ve had my phone on silent since I left, and I’m nearly out of storage space from voicemails alone. She probably has a missing person’s report out on me by now.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“That I’m leaving her for a four-eyed dumbfuck who’s going to monologue about our divorce in his next Netflix sell out. No, seriously, I won’t tell her about you. It’s none of her business anyway.”

Before Richie can respond, Eddie heaves a dramatic sigh and stands from the bed. Then he walks over to the window and opens it a crack, airing out some of the stagnant heat. He looks down into the yard for a moment before turning and leaning back against the sill.

“We don’t have any kids, so that’ll make things easier. And she has a decent salary so I doubt I’ll have to worry about alimony. We rent our house so even that can be wrapped up quickly. She’ll make things hard though. She always does.”

Richie scrutinizes him closely, slightly concerned by how laissez faire Eddie seems about the whole affair. He’s talking about the end of his marriage. Even if Eddie was unhappy, even if he’s been planning this for months, shouldn’t he be at least a little upset?

Richie's old enough to have seen countless marriages fall apart. He’s watched friends and acquaintances sink into black holes so deep it took them years to climb back out. Even if they knew it was the right decision, even if they were the one to initiate it, even if their spouse was abusive, there was still an ugly well of hurt that seemed to bubble over when it came time to sever things with a judge’s signature.

But Eddie seems uncharacteristically ambivalent. As if Myra were just a bad roommate who he needs to divide his stuff up with before moving out. Arguing over who gets the coffeemaker and who gets the toaster.

“Were you ever happy with her?” Richie asks, hoping that Eddie won’t find the question too invasive.

To his surprise, Eddie just shrugs.

“She’s a nurse practitioner, you know. If that helps explain the appeal. It felt safe, having someone who would drive me to the emergency room no questions asked. My last girlfriend broke up with me because she wanted to travel, and I can’t stay anywhere more than half-an-hour from a hospital. I’m neurotic as fuck. I have Contamination OCD and probably a prescription drug addiction considering I knock back Klonopin like tic tacs. I make up food allergies because I’m scared of eating at restaurants. I took the train up here ‘cause I’m terrified of flying. I can’t go camping for obvious reasons. I open the windows in winter because I’m scared of gas leaks even though my house doesn’t get any gas power. And I’ll never be able to have kids because I’ll probably turn out like my mom.”

Richie absorbs everything in scattered pieces, half-formed assurances sitting on his tongue. Eddie’s entire monologue sends a series of sharp pangs through his chest, but it’s the last sentence that almost breaks him.

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe I won’t go full Munchausen on them, but I’ll still be the fucking worst.”

Richie’s first instinct is to contradict him, but once he thinks about it, can he in good conscious deny it? Eddie has always been so wrapped up in the mechanics of his body, analyzing every stray discomfort and obsessing over the most innocuous abnormalities. Would he even be able to function if he were responsible for the health and wellbeing of a child? All those colds and ear infections and late nights of crying with no obvious cause? The skinned knees and broken arms, spontaneous emergency room visits and mystery ailments? It would probably be a living hell for Eddie. And as much as Richie hates to admit it, he can easily see him falling into the same destructive habits as his mother.

So that’s it then. They won’t have kids; Richie’s fine with that. He likes kids in small doses. He can entertain his nieces and nephew well enough. But parenthood never felt like a missing piece in his life, and he figures if he hasn’t felt any paternal urge by forty it’s unlikely to kick in later. Honestly, part of him is relieved that Eddie doesn’t want kids, but he deeply hopes that fear of turning out like his mother isn’t his only reason.

“Is this the part where we state our disclaimers?” Richie asks, standing from the bed. “‘Cause after a decade of coke and two ODs I’m pretty tough competition.”

The room freezes, the air draining out the open window. Eddie’s eyes go wide, his frame rigid, and Richie wants to punch his fractured glasses back into his eyes for saying something so fucking stupid. He’s not in LA anymore. He can’t just casually say shit like that as if it were some relatable pasttime.

“Are you still on it?” Eddie asks cautiously.

“No,” Richie answers quickly. “Almost six years sober. But the alcoholism isn’t going away anytime soon.”

Fuck, why did he say that? He’s supposed to be doing damage control. Why is he making this so fucking difficult for himself?

“You’re not an alcoholic,” Eddie states neutrally, much to Richie’s surprise. “You’d be much worse off if you were. Not to hand out a backseat diagnosis, but half the people I work with are alcoholics and it’s not that hard to tell the difference.

Richie is surprised, and admittedly impressed by how well Eddie just read him.

Sure, he definitely drinks more than he should, but social alcoholism is somewhat mandatory in his line of work. He definitely finds relief in it, but he can comfortably go days or even a week without having a drink, while he knows plenty of people who struggle to go more than an hour.

In fact, despite all appearances, he’s never really had a problem with addiction. Much like drinking, his prolonged coke habit was a symptom of excelling in various circles. It was accessible and unavoidable, and his first OD happened when he was new to the scene and didn’t know his tolerance and went too hard too fast. And the second one honest to god wasn’t his fault. It was at a party where someone cut the stash with some other shit that sent him and eight other people to the ER, and was the deciding event that led him to quit cold turkey. He already had enough wild stories to bank on for a lifetime, and once he put his mind to it and got past the initial detox, quitting was relatively easy. Much easier than all the government pamphlets and eighties PSAs made it out to be. But he’s well aware that he’s an anomaly in that regard and should count himself lucky.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says with a small laugh. “Which sucks since I’m the one person in LA who can’t get away with blaming addiction for all my fucked up decisions.”

He lowers himself back onto the bed, feeling embarrassed and wrung out, wishing they could hurry this part along so he can touch Eddie's skin again. 

“So what are you going to do after this?” he asks, eager to change the subject.

Eddie looks at him skeptically, thrown by the sudden segue.

“After tonight or life in general?”

“After leaving Derry. Again. I mean, I guess you’ll go back to New York? Get your own place?”

Richie can’t deny that he’s been indulging in an elaborate daydream where Eddie quits his job and follows him out to LA, but rationally he knows that Eddie is far too practical for such an impulsive move.

Eddie gives a small nod. “For now, yeah, I think that’s on the agenda.”

Richie’s heart sinks, even though that’s the answer he was anticipating.

“Y’know, I’m in New York like a week out of every month. I was thinking of getting an apartment there anyway. Might actually be cheaper than staying in hotels.”

Okay, maybe that’s a lie. His work brings him to New York often enough, but he probably doesn’t spend more than several weeks there out of every year. But he can make arrangements. He can schedule meetings remotely. He can block out his schedule. For Eddie, he can make it work.

“Thanks, but I make 90k a year. You don’t have to subsidize my divorce apartment.”

“No, no, I wasn’t saying… I was just saying that I’ll, I’ll be around. A lot, probably. But just ‘cause I’m in town doesn’t mean you have to… We don’t have to share or anything. We can date other people. We can–“

“Hey, stop freaking out.”

Eddie steps away from the window and places his hands on Richie’s shoulders, the steady pressure bearing down on him. Richie swallows and raises his eyes, overwhelmed by the gentle weight of Eddie’s hands.

There’s a beat of silence before Eddie speaks.

“Do you want to date other people?” he asks, direct and calm.

Richie hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head no.

“Me neither,” Eddie replies with a soft smile.

Richie sighs, feeling Eddie’s hands move with the rise and fall of his shoulders. Then he reaches forward to wrap his arms around Eddie’s waist, gently pulling him closer. Eddie steps forward willingly until Richie can rest his forehead in his dip of his diaphragm, feeling Eddie shudder when he places a kiss against his sternum.

Eddie’s hands travel up his neck to cradle the back of his head, locking him in place with a firm grip on his hair.

They stay like that for a while. Until Richie’s arms grow tired and he has to lower them, but not without playfully running his palms over Eddie’s ass. He pulls away to see Eddie glaring down at him, right before tugging his hair back in retaliation.

“What’s your schedule like next week?” Eddie asks, relinquishing his grip to take a seat back at Richie’s side.

“Empty, except for a few loose threads. But I don’t have to be anywhere till the twenty-third.”

That’s when he’s supposed to be in Reno where he’s booked for three nights before flying back to LA on the redeye. He has plenty of other obligations in the meantime, but he told his manager to cancel everything that couldn’t be wrapped up in a twenty minute Skype call.

He called it a mental health break, but apparently that excuse only flies if you’re a college student and responsible for nothing and no one but yourself.

But still, celebrities pull shit like this all the time, and Richie’s hardly his manager and publicist's first forest fire.

“Why, you have something planned?” Richie asks.

Eddie shrugs. “I was thinking, maybe we could go down to New York and look for a place.”

Richie’s heart goes still.

“I mean, I’ll sign the lease under my name and you can write me checks for rent if it’ll make you feel better, but I’ll give you a say in the location. I haven’t rented in the city itself in like twelve years, and the market definitely got a lot worse after I left, but as long as the rent’s under three grand it should be fine. And if things don’t work out, then they don’t work out.”

Richie gapes at him, hope threatening to overpower all his reservations.

He nods his head enthusiastically, silently agreeing to everything and promising whatever Eddie asks.

“I want this to work out,” he says gently, squeezing Eddie’s hand tight.

Eddie gives a small nod.

“I do too.”

Three grand. They can definitely get a nice one bedroom for less than that. Probably in Brooklyn if Eddie wants to stay close to the Financial District. It’ll still be a shoebox compared to the sprawling properties out in LA, but Richie spent the better part of his twenties in patchwork rentals, and it’s not like he needs space for anything more than a suitcase.

He imagines flying into La Guardia at three in the morning, bleary-eyed and hungry, getting an Uber to Williamsburg or Bushwick, climbing a four-floor walk up to find leftovers waiting for him in the fridge. Then he can collapse on his side of the bed and curl an arm around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie will respond with a light kick to his shin and a command to get up and shower so he doesn’t drag any airplane germs into their bed.

They can keep things secret for a while. They can test the waters, learn how to live with each other, build a small home together, a tiny domestic pocket in a city of nine million. And if push comes to shove, Richie will drop everything and move to New York if that’s what it takes. He’ll wrap up his contracts and turn down projects, commute when necessary, whatever it takes to make this work.

And it will work.

It has to.

Eddie is looking at him expectantly, a soft glow in his eyes. With nothing left to lose, Richie leans in slowly, closing his eyes and tilting his head. Eddie meets him halfway, their lips coming together gently, similar to the first kiss they shared earlier in the night.

Richie’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to this. If kissing Eddie will ever stop feeling like an out of body experience. If he’ll ever shake off the fear that this is all a trick of the deadlights.

After all, how many people get to return to their childhood homes and reunite with their first loves? How many are so lucky? How many people fall achingly in love early on in life only to settle for something quieter in adulthood, trying to convince themselves that what they felt as children was never anything more than a trick of the light?

But this is real. It feels just as real as it did back then. Maybe more so, because back then Richie still had hope that there were other people waiting for him. Future lovers who would take Eddie’s place, providing something just as intense and fulfilling.

But that fantasy fizzled out years ago. Now he has no illusion that anyone else is waiting for him down the line.

No, this is his last stop. It’s this or nothing at all. They made a blood pact by the river and have the scars on their palms to prove it. And beneath all the insecurity and second-guessing, he knows that Eddie feels the same way. They’re in this for the long haul, whether they like it or not.

“I love you,” Richie whispers between kisses. “Whatever that means.”

He presses his forehead against Eddie’s, tracing a thumb along the outline of his bandaged cheek.

“I love you too,” Eddie says in return, and even though some part of Richie intuitively knew that to be true, he’s still desperate to hear it again. And again and again and again.

“No, jokes aside, I really fucking love you. I should’ve told you that before you left.”

Richie’s voice begins to crack. He thinks back to that day twenty-three years ago when he held Eddie close on the sidewalk outside his aunt’s car. How could Richie be so stupid? How could he think there was anything platonic about their relationship when Eddie embraced him like he was going off to war?

And after watching Eddie’s car disappear around the curb, he cursed aloud in the street and swore that he would tell him the truth someday. Then he’d kiss him, fuck him, and marry him, in that order. That’s the mantra that ran through his head while skateboarding home, choking back tears that began to spill over the second he shut his bedroom door.

This room. This bed where he cried and cried until night came and went.

“I was in love with you too and didn’t say shit,” Eddie says, tangling a hand in Richie’s shirt. “But maybe it wouldn’t of mattered. We probably would’ve forgotten everything anyway.”

Richie nods, knowing it to be true, but too angry to acknowledge it.

“It’s not fucking fair,” he sobs, burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder.

“No, it really isn’t.”

Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s back and slides his hands up under the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath.

“I’ve been looking for this since I left,” Richie whimpers. “Or something like this. Then it happens in three days and I can’t fucking go back without it. You made me so happy. I couldn’t even remember how happy I was.”

“Stop saying shit like that,” Eddie chokes out, gripping him tighter. “I’m still so fucking scared. That we’ll leave and forget everything again. Fucking terrified.”

Richie freezes, raw panic shooting up his spine. God, it never even occurred to him that they might forget everything again. No, that can’t happen. It shouldn’t happen. They destroyed whatever the hell was poisoning this town. It can’t hurt them like that again.

But if it does, then they should know soon enough. They can contact the others in several days, ask how much they remember, and if there’s the slightest chance in hell that their memories are fading, then he and Eddie will stay here. They have to. That’s the only option. Fuck everything else. Fuck everything except for this. Richie will happily burn every bridge between this coast and the next if it’ll mean keeping Eddie right here where he belongs.

“If that happens,” Richie whispers, “then I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

“Fuck off.”

Richie laughs, then pulls off his glasses so he can kiss Eddie without any obstacles.

They have three whole days alone together before his parents get back. Three whole days to act out everything they missed.

They can watch old movies and pretend they’re on VHS and not Hulu. They can dig out Richie’s old stuff from the basement and read through all the comics that have probably aged terribly. They can throw stones down by the river and wander through the woods, and maybe Richie can even show him the spot on the kissing bridge where he carved their initials a lifetime ago.

Or course everything will seem less magical through the eyes of an adult, but who fucking cares?

It’s the same room. The same mattress. And despite everything, they’re still the same people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed it.


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